


The Ghost in Her Mouth

by thedragonagelesbian



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:46:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24826261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedragonagelesbian/pseuds/thedragonagelesbian
Summary: There is a ghost in Skyhold claiming to be Belladonna Hawke. This ghost wants to keep its distance, not only because it wants to hide the truth, but because they know better than most the dangers of intimacy. After all, only a friend can betray you.But keeping their distance might be harder than expected when a certain member of the Inquisition is absolutely head over heels for the Champion of Kirkwall. Well, the idea of her, anyway. The truth, Cassandra comes to realize, is far harder to romanticize.
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Original Character(s), Female Hawke/Cassandra Pentaghast, Hawke/Cassandra Pentaghast
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	The Ghost in Her Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic is being published in honor of the (checks notes) three very pretty GIFs BioWare decided to grace us with. We are truly honored to receive such crumbs.
> 
> Actually I started writing this before BioWare once again decided to tease us, but I'm glad that I finished the prologue now because hopefully the fandom is somewhat awake?? Here's to hoping lol
> 
> Finally, as this fic is more about the idea of Belladonna Hawke than the reality, it's not necessary to read my other works about her, but this does take place in the same universe as 'A Game of Wicked Grace'. The premise of that fic is that in addition to everything Varric tells Cassandra in DA2, he also goes into much more detail about Bella's struggles with mental illness & the emotional consequences of her time in Kirkwall. That Cassandra knows these details is going to be important here, so if you have some time, I encourage you to take a gander!
> 
> Now, without further ado, let's lie!

Belladonna Hawke staggered backwards, clutching with one hand at her ribs, the blood-soaked robes adhered to her stomach. With the other, she clung to her staff, that long slender length of pale wood which now trembled violently as her hand shook around it, knuckles aching to the point of bursting from gripping it so tightly, from the sheer effort of holding on to her one desperate lifeline. Her blood was roaring in her ear so loud she could scarcely hear the applause erupting around her, and when she tried to calm her skittering, frantic pulse with some deep breaths, they came out instead as ragged, sputtering gasps. No matter how deep in her lungs she forced the air, no matter how long she held it there, begging her body to still long enough to keep it there, it always came back up. Bubbling and broken.

Her knees nearly buckled as she took another step backward— a step too far, she realized, as the Arishok crumpled to the ground before her, but not at her feet. No, his motionless body was nearly a foot away from her. No, now she had to step back, and quickly because the applause was dying down, and she had to strike while they were all standing up.

She swallowed hard, unclenched her jaw, and threw her arms open as she stepped forward once more, too far again but it was too late. She shoved every ache in her joints, every complaint in her muscles, to the periphery and began to bellow.

“People of Kirkwall! Rejoice! Rejoice, good citizens, rejoice, for your champion is here…” 

A pause, ever so slight. They would think that it was for dramatic effect. She knew it was to confirm that everything was in its place.

With her very best radiant grin, she flourished her staff in one hand, across the body so no one could see the small flask slip from her sleeve behind her back. For a moment, she heard the shattering of glass, but it was drowned out a half-second later by the roar of flames. How resplendent she must have looked with a halo of flickering reds and yellows behind her, the fire lapping at her silhouette.

So maybe it was  _ also _ for dramatic effect.

“And her name is Belladonna Hawke!”

The curtains swung closed in front of her, just missing her nose by inches. The darkness that followed, sheltered as they were from the harsh spotlights, brought an instant cold relief, and for that moment, those few precious seconds, they were Rowan again, sweaty and panting and wrestling to keep their identity tampered down for just a few minutes longer. Jaw locked tight, grinding their molars to dust, they marched offstage.

Behind them, the applause burst once more, but within the velvet confines of the wings, the most important noise was the whisper of the stagehands corralling everyone into place from the shadows. Meanwhile, the cast members did their very best to not talk to each other, which is to say that the wings instantly filled with their murmurs.

“Weren’t you supposed to deliver those last lines over my dead body?”

Rowan flinched at the sound of Vettel’s voice curling in their ear, the weight of his hand against their shoulder. A playful touch, overly familiar. “You should’ve died further upstage.”

The stagehands hushed them just as the curtains peeled open once more and cast members began to flood the stage in neat, orderly rows. The ensemble went out first, followed by the slower trickle of named characters. They took their bows with enthusiasm, waving and smiling and basking in the appreciation of yet another successful show.

Vettel went out with the actors who played Isabela and Varric, but not before a stagehand fussed with the fake Qunari horns, thrown askew by his dramatic fall to the ground not five minutes earlier.

And, finally, their turn.  _ Her _ turn, for as Rowan stepped back out into the insufferable heat of the stage, each movement eliciting protests from her muscles, they were Belladonna Hawke once more. It astounded them, sometimes, how much effort they had to put in to make a smile seem effortless. Beaming with as much genuine joy as she could fake, Belladonna Hawke sauntered onto center stage and took her bows to uproarious applause.

Rowan held their composure until the curtains were closed again. The moment the audience had disappeared, they bolted offstage, back into the dressing rooms— their dressing room. By the Maker, they needed to get out of their costume, drenched in sweat and adhered to their skin. A hot shower would be in order, but for now, they contented themself with a cloth rag and a basin of tepid water. They scrubbed their body off as best they could, under the arms, between the legs and the breasts, special attention paid to the back of the neck which had started to ache terribly.

Maybe they needed a massage as well. Or a heat balm.

They rinsed the rag off and went for their face next, for that ridiculous makeup they had to wear every night. The bright red eyeshadow, a scarlet eyesore, and the band of kaddis across the nose. The kaddis looked, objectively, badass, but every night they wondered who the hell wore kaddis as a normal, everyday part of their ensemble? As warpaint, fine, but as makeup?

But before they could begin to wash all that red away, someone knocked on their door.

“Mx. Kathomir?”

Rowan swallowed the anger rising in their throat as they threw the rag down. “Yes?”

“Someone’s here to see you. They say it’s urgent.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“Um… no, I don’t think so.”

Groaning, Rowan threw on a change of clothes. Light white linens, nice clean breathable fabric, as a contrast to those damn heavy robes they wore as the Champion of Kirkwall. They took two steps toward the door before that pain in their neck shot down their spine, and they stifled a cry as every muscle in their lower back seemed to light up at once. Like someone was twisting a knife through their torso.

Their mood was not improved by the fact that the door to their dressing room had gotten stuck, again. They had to throw it open with a shove so hard their already aching shoulders screamed, and they missed the stagehand behind it by mere centimeters. They gave him a pointed glare and snapped, “Tell Stamwell I’m changing the fight choreography. I’m tired of working myself to the point of exhaustion while Vettel just stands there waving a giant fake sword around.”

“Oh, but that was the most realistic part!”

For a moment, Rowan’s curiosity was stronger than their agitation. Tilting their head to the side, they peered past the stagehand to see a human woman and a dwarven man standing nearby. The woman’s hood was pulled low across her face, obscuring everything but the small easy smile on her lips. The dwarf had his arms folded across his hairy chest, exposed by his liberally unbuttoned shirt. The stagehand moved aside, allowing Rowan to step closer to the strangers, study them carefully.

“Well, what do you think, Varric? Any resemblance?”

“Eh.” The dwarf shrugged heavily. “At a glance, maybe. Right hair color and height, eyes are a bit off, though at least they’re grey… but it doesn’t hold up close; you’ve got different body types, different bone structures. Not that it actually matters if you resemble each other, of course. No one at Skyhold will know what you look like, beyond a few key distinguishing features.” He paused, a smile tugging at his lips. “The makeup helps a lot, actually.”

“First time anyone’s said that,” the woman said with a laugh, and as she spoke, she pulled back her hood, revealing a face marked by bright red eyeshadow and a large scar across the nose.

Rowan’s lips twitched, curling into a small twisted smile. “I suppose you’re not here to correct me on the historical accuracy of my performance.”

“I don’t think a historically accurate version of my story could be shown in Orlais,” Belladonna Hawke replied with a smirk. “Introductions aren’t necessary, I hope.”

“Not at all, thanks to those few key distinguishing features.” Rowan reached up to trace their fingers across the swipe of kaddis on their face. “Didn’t know it was a scar.”

“The kaddis is more visually impressive,” Hawke admitted, “one of many changes for the better made by my favorite lying biographer.”

The dwarf, who could only be Varric Tethras responded with a snort. “I’m glad you don’t mind my embellishments. I’m still getting monthly complaints from Broody and Blondie about how I ‘exaggerated’ their hostility towards each other. It’s more interesting this way! You,” he turned to Rowan, “ _ you _ think Anders and Fenris’ relationship is intriguing as is, right?”

As Rowan folded their arms, the muscles in their back screeched, and they shrugged their shoulders, trying to crack their spine and alleviate some of that knotted tension between the blades. “I’d prefer you get to the point, actually.”

Hawke and Tethras shared a glance. Rowan could see the silent words passing between them, communicated largely through small facial gestures, arched eyebrows and quirked lips, though they weren’t sure what they were saying. Body language was a personal thing, and it took time, intimacy even, to learn how to decipher it for an individual. Rowan did not know either of them well enough to guess at their intentions, but whatever they wanted, it was clearly nontrivial. Why else would the Champion of Kirkwall come to Val Royeaux?

_ And why would she come to me? _

Finally, Tethras announced, “Let us take you out to dinner, will you? We have a business proposition for you, best discussed in private.”

“That’s terribly vague.”

“Well, let’s make it a little more concrete then.” Tethras unhooked a small coin purse from his belt and tossed it to Rowan. They caught it with ease, and when they opened it up, they saw a pile of glittering gold royals waiting for them inside. “Trust me, there’s a lot more where that came from.”

Rowan snatched up one of the coins and rolled it between their fingers, feeling the ridged edges biting gently into the pads. The gold was lustrous, and when the light of the nearby oil lamp caught it just right, they could see their reflection in it. Warped and discolored, but unmistakably still their face, masked in the markings of Belladonna Hawke. And they felt a lurch in their stomach as they turned the coin back and forth in their fingers, a lurch far more powerful than that voice in their head saying that whatever the Champion of Kirkwall wanted with them, it couldn’t be good.

A lurch called greed.

They dropped the coin back into the purse and tucked it into their pocket. “Very well, but we’re going to a bath house instead. The heat will be good for my muscles, and a restaurant is hardly a private place in Orlais.”

Hawke wrinkled her nose. “Maker, I hate this country. What the hell kind of place is this where you can’t enjoy a nice meal in peace?”

“I hate it here too, Nightshade,” Tethras assured her, “but the sooner we get this sorted, the sooner we can leave. Besides,” he grinned, and Rowan noted the way that his smile changed when he was looking at her. No longer slick and slippery, but something toothier. More genuine. “It’ll help you get rid of that damn sea brine smell.”

“There’s a smell?!”

“I hate to be the one to tell you, but it’s overwhelming.”

“Oh, come on, you can’t tell me it bothers you; it’s just like Kirkwall! No matter where you were in the city, you could always smell the ocean, even just a whiff of it.”

“Ahem.” Rowan cleared their throat loudly. “Let’s get going, shall we?”

Rowan took them to the nice bathhouse and watched with glee as their companions forked over the silvers for one of the private rooms, with two baths and a partition between them. They left Hawke and Tethras to work out whatever intimacy issues might be between them and stripped quickly, nearly tripping over the slick tiles around the pool in their eagerness to submerge themself in the sweet heat of the water.

The effect was instantaneous. Assuredly they would still be sore tomorrow, but for the moment, they felt the bliss of the tension coiled along their spine unwinding. The muscles in their thighs and calves loosened, their shoulders relaxed, and the tightness that had settled in their stomach began to ease. Much like a marionette whose strings had been cut, their body collapsed into the water, an unorganized heap of bone and skin and sinew sinking to the bottom of the bath.

Rowan had used that simile before, of the stringless marionette. They often used it to describe a helplessness, an overdependence on an external force that was now gone. But maybe the marionette was not as pitiable as they had always assumed. Strung up or not, it lacked agency, but with the cords, someone else was filling that vacuum with their own will.

Surely the freedom made the powerlessness easier. More bearable.

But Rowan still had their own strings attached, and so after a moment, they emerged from the water. From the other side of the partition, they heard hushed murmurs, which died away as they cleared their throat.

“So, what is this business proposition anyway?”

A pause, and then Tethras announced, “I presume you’ve heard of the Inquisition?”

“Hard to avoid hearing of them.” Something sour lingered on Rowan’s tongue. “I’m not terribly fond of Chantry fanatics, you know.”

“Oh, neither am I,” Hawke assured them.

“But the question is,” Tethras continued, “can we pay you enough to put up with them?”

Rowan turned the question over in their head, trying to find the angle at which it made sense. Orient it correctly, and they would understand what Hawke and Tethras were getting at. In the meantime, a blossom of red caught their eye. The bath was tainted scarlet, a wisp of color once a coiled ribbon now diffuse and faint in the water. And they felt it then, the streaks like bloody tears on their cheeks and nose where their makeup had run. Almost absent-mindedly, they touched their face.

“You want me to pretend to be you for the Inquisition,” they murmured, staring at the stains on their fingers, a pale diluted red. “You don’t want to do it yourself, but you’re hoping I can be paid to keep my act up off stage.” Though the color had faded, the texture of the kaddis was still thick, waxy.

From behind the partition, Tethras grunted. “You’re pretty sharp for an actor.”

“Par for the course for an Orlesian, though,” Hawke pointed out.

“I would’ve thought it’d be a relief to know I’m not a fool,” Rowan commented. “Your plan hinges on my sharpness… and, of course, my cooperation.”

“And do you intend on cooperating?”

Rowan paused as they considered Hawke’s tone. To someone else, it might have come off as mere curiosity, the question genuine and offered without malice or frustration. As if she had no vested interest in the response. But Rowan could hear the edge in her voice, expertly blunted and dulled, but nonetheless present beneath the surface. A sharpness which suggested anything but indifference.

“Depends,” Rowan announced at last. “I’d personally prefer to know a bit more about my assignment before risking the mercy of the Inquisition.”

“It’s simple,” Tethras assured them. “Hawke has some information that the Inquisition needs to know, and we need  _ you _ to pass it along.”

A nerve at the base of Rowan’s neck spasmed at the exact same time that something burst between their eyes, and through gritted teeth, they muttered, “I’d rather you not insult my intelligence by speaking vaguely, biding your time until your dramatic reveal. Tell me what I need to know, or stop wasting my time. And if it  _ were  _ that simple, you would’ve sent a letter and left me out of it.”

“A letter wouldn’t have been enough for the Inquisition,” Tethras snapped in response, as if it were obvious. The hostility took Rowan by surprise, revealing an unexpected crack in his composure. They knew well how to find and widen such cracks, but was it really so easy with him? After all that effortless polish, was he really so careless as to simply throw their frustration back at them?

But as he continued, Rowan thought back to that smile. His smile for Hawke. Like his tone, no longer the smoothest burnished brass of a salesman slicking down every edge, but instead a jagged line of teeth breaking through the veneer. 

“They’ve been trying to hunt her down since before the Conclave went to shit. If they pick up the scent again, they’re never going to leave her alone.”

The desperation in Hawke’s voice, the resentment in his. Hawke wanted to duck her responsibility as Champion, and Tethras was happy to help her along, despite it being against the Inquisition’s best interests, because that was what she was worth to him.

And if that worth were quantified monetarily? Rowan was paid ten royals a night to be Belladonna Hawke, but something told them that their performance would be worth a lot more than that to Varric Tethras.

The cold metal of gold was more soothing than any heat balm, its bloody tang sweeter than lavender.

_ Patience, _ they told themself.  _ Patience. _

“Which is why we’ve come to you,” Hawke spoke up, “because I very much like being left alone, and were it not likely that I am the only person in Thedas who can provide this particular piece of information, I would happily be on a boat very far away from here right now. Rivain is gorgeous this time of year.”

“I’m still not sure why you couldn’t be bothered to go to the Inquisition yourself,” Rowan commented. “Is this information not worth risking your life?”

“My happiness,” Hawke corrected. “I don’t want to help the Inquisition in person because it would threaten my happiness.”

A frown. “You don’t think helping the Inquisition would be dangerous?”

“Not for me.”

Something twisted in Rowan’s chest, something bitter tasting and covered in thorns, less the momentary flashes of greed and more the slow smolder of envy. That desperation had vanished, replaced with a short and simple certainty which made Rowan clench their jaw. Excavate enough, dig enough away, and at the core of that snarky personality Rowan found so often someone scared and sad. They had thought that that was the core of Belladonna Hawke too— felt, even, that it should be, that it was not fair to hear that self-assuredness beneath the mask.

“Will it be dangerous for me?”

“Only if you’re caught,” Hawke replied. “A lot of that will be on you and your acting abilities, but we’ll do our part to help.”

“For example, I have a friend who can replace those flasks you used in the show with the real thing,” Tethras offered. “Obviously it’s no substitute for real magic, so we’ll keep you away from the templars, but you’ll be able to fake it in combat, if it ever comes to that. Hopefully it won’t, of course; I’ll try to keep you out of fights as much as possible.”

Hearing that their employers had thought this plan through beyond the initial idea was somewhat reassuring, but Rowan could not shake the unease that shot down their spine while the muscles in their thighs clenched tight. Fighting. Real fighting, as if fake fighting wasn’t exhausting enough. As if they had ever wanted to do more of it.

“I’m just a stage magician,” they demurred, though it wasn’t strictly true. “Take away my smoke and mirrors, and I’m not sure what’s left will be of use to you.”

“We’ll provide the smoke and mirrors,” Tethras insisted. “You just need to manipulate them.”

“And it won’t be hard,” Hawke added. “I have quite a bit of smoke surrounding me already; no one knows what’s underneath, so you can play me however you like as long as you don’t contradict the information in Varric’s book.”

“And you avoid Cullen.”

“Sound life advice for anyone.”

“But particularly pertinent here. Rowan, no one in the Inquisition has met Hawke before, save for the commander of their troops, Cullen Rutherford. He was…”

“I read the book,” Rowan interrupted. “I know who he is. How can you be sure that he won’t see through me?”

“We can’t, but we have an advantage here: Cullen is terrified of Hawke and ashamed of his time in Kirkwall. With any luck and a few uncomfortable reminders from yours truly, he won’t even want to get close enough to realize who you aren’t.”

“Hm… the two of you seem to have thought this all out; maybe this actually is simple.”

“We’ll be doing everything we can to keep you safe,” Hawke promised, and she sounded genuine, “and we wouldn’t try to hire you if we weren’t going to compensate you for the risks as well.”

Compensation. What a joyous, angelic word.

But in that moment, that little voice so often covered up by the clink of coins began to scream. Yes, maybe it was simple. Maybe it was just acting, acting more and acting longer and disappearing into Belladonna Hawke’s skin. Maybe it was simpler still because that skin lent itself to sculpting, marble they could chisel into any shape they pleased with minimal fear of being caught so long as they conformed to expectations. Maybe combat wasn’t the issue that Tethras and Hawke thought it would be, and maybe that simplified things further still, but maybe  _ that _ was the issue because they had decided five years ago that they were never going to take another job that required those two skills: fighting and lying. 

They had told themself five years ago that they never again wanted to act for anything other than acting’s sake, that their future performances would only ever be performances and not acts of manipulation or deceit. That they would never again watch the line between themself and their role bend under the weight of their own unscrupulousness. They had sought out stagework for the precise reason that it maintained that line for them. The curtain was their solace, and when the red velvet swung shut each night, it was with a definitiveness, a certainty, that Rowan needed.

And they knew that they needed it, as much as anyone could know anything and still doubt it, not because it wasn’t true, but because they didn’t want it to be. Because something else, some other vice, was screaming louder.

And Rowan knew their vices as much as anyone could know their flaws and still be tempted by them.

Knowing was not mastery. The ability to name something did not give you power over it.

In that moment in the bath house, Rowan grappled with two facts about themself which they knew and understood intimately, and they were unable to force those facts to come to an agreement. Uncertainty seized them, followed quickly by a panic climbing up their torso, clamping around their lungs and knotting itself thick in their throat. Neither conviction nor greed budged, and they were left floundering, gasping, desperate to know what to do.

A few words forced their way off of their tongue.

“I need some time to think over your offer.”

“Of course,” Tethras said.

“Don’t hesitate to ask if you have any questions,” Hawke added, “and if there’s anything we can do to sweeten the pot…?”

“Way to negotiate, Nightshade.”

“We need them.”

Need. Rowan reflected on that word as they clambered out of the bath and noted the furroughs formed on the pads of their fingers. What a pathetic word. What a pathetic state. Better to never depend on anyone.

If they accepted the job, they would enter into dependence. Maybe that was the deciding factor.

But with the kind of money they were offering, they could buy their independence.

With a curse, Rowan grabbed a fluffy towel and dried themself off. No closer to coming to an answer, though definitively looking like themself again, they changed back into their clothes. From behind the partition came more words they only half-registered. Where to reach Tethras when they decided what they wanted to do. Another promise that they would be well-paid. A wish of good luck. Only Hawke’s last words reached them.

“I’d say Maker watch over you, but his watching has never done me much good.”

Neither had it done much for Rowan.

The theater was still occupied by the time that Rowan got back. Cast and crew filled the rooms backstage, where they drank readily and talked loosely and celebrated yet another successful show. Rowan had never participated in the post-show revelries, so it was with a scowl that they moved toward their dressing room, careful to step around drunk forms on the floor and duck away from coworkers trying to toast to their performance. They never turned around when someone called their name, and they shrugged out of a half dozen reaching hands trying to wrap around a fistful of warm flesh long enough to pull them into the party.

But the door was stuck again, and in the seconds they spent struggling with the knob, someone finally got a grasp of them. They whirled around with a snarl on their lips and saw Vettel standing behind them, now freed from the layers of cakey grey makeup. And he was grinning, his entire face lit by the soft glow of a gentle buzz.

“Rowan! I can’t believe you’re here; you never come to these things.”

Rowan forced a smile and slipped out of his grip. “Don’t get your hopes up; I’m just here to get some things I forgot.”

“Why not stay?” Vettel insisted. “Have some fun. Relax a little bit!”

“It’s hard to relax when every muscle in my back is screaming at me,” Rowan replied. “Maybe when our fight choreography doesn’t leave me on the verge of passing out every show, I’ll be able to stay.”

“Oh, about that!” The disappointment on Vettel’s face vanished as quickly as it had come. “Arturis mentioned that you were upset about the choreography. Well, he didn’t mention it to me; I just overheard him talking about it with the other stagehands. It didn’t seem like he was going to bring it up with Stamwell, since he was kind of pissed at you, so I decided to bring it up myself! Well, Stamwell spent the last few hours talking with Temarin and me, and we came up with new choreography! I’ll be doing a lot more of the work, and it won’t be so exhausting for you anymore. Isn’t that great?”

But Rowan heard another question, the real question lingering beneath the surface.  _ Isn’t this what you wanted? _ And it was, but the problem was how it had come to them. Through the help of someone else. Not only their generosity, but the familiarity that such generosity required. A casual intimacy, sticky, even, in the way that Rowan could feel the bonds forming between them. The tendrils of a spider web wound between their bodies to keep them forever connected, forever capable of knowing each other.

The issue for Rowan was not in the being known but in what came next. In the new forms of hurt available to them as a result. After all, they had spent a lifetime learning that treachery required intimacy, could not thrive without it.

When that life had ended five years ago, they had hoped that they would never again have to live in fear of betraying others.

But if they had to, then they may as well be compensated for it.

“Yes,” Rowan said. “It is indeed great. Make sure my understudy learns the new choreography.”

Vettel blinked. “Your understudy?”

“Yes. Havera or whatever her name is. She’ll be taking over for me for the rest of the run.”

“But… but why?”

Because how could they stay now? 

Because if there was ever a sign that it was time to, once again, move on, this was it.

Because trust in them was a dangerous, dangerous thing, and they belonged somewhere where that trust was not so easily given, and, besides, Vettel would be happier in the long run for their leaving.

But what they said was simply, “I’ve been given a better job offer.”

Cassandra Pentaghast was in a strange mood. Cullen noted it the moment she came into his office. There was an awkwardness to her gait, a deliberate attempt to walk on her heels and amble rather than march forward. And her mouth twitched oddly, stretched into an attempt at an effortless smirk which threatened constantly to peel into a grin. She was also holding something, likely the source of her state. As she came closer to his desk, he realized that it was a piece of paper, wrinkled around her vice-like grip and blanched knuckles which betrayed any airs of ease and indifference.

“You owe me ten sovereigns,” she declared.

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “What for?”

Her smile slipped, the corners of her lips pulling backward as she slammed the paper on his desk. “You said she wouldn’t come. You bet ten sovereigns that she wouldn’t come.” And when Cullen didn’t immediately respond, she picked the paper up again and thrust it in his face. “Varric says so! The Champion of Kirkwall is coming to Skyhold!”

Cullen blinked several times as he took the letter from Cassandra, which did, indeed, contain a message from Varric explaining that Belladonna Hawke was bound for the Frostbacks. She was apparently coming with a fresh signed copy of  _ The Tale of the Champion _ for Cassandra, an apology for Varric’s deceit. And, he promised, information about Corypheus.

Well, that would explain why Cassandra was practically vibrating.

“I’m surprised,” Cullen admitted as he handed the letter back to her. “I’ve never known the Champion to volunteer for something like this.”

“Well, you were wrong.”

“Happily so,” he assured her, though a sense of unease was sprouting in his stomach. Maybe she had matured more in the last three years than he would have expected. Yet he could not shake from his mind the memory of the last time they had seen each other. That image of her running. Shirking every responsibility, every duty, every obligation. She and her friends had broken the world, and they had left it to burn.

If she had changed, why hadn’t she helped sooner? Why did Varric need to lie about where she was?

“I’m just surprised,” he repeated.

“Maybe you don’t know her as well as you think you do,” Cassandra suggested.

Cullen scoffed. “As if you know her any better; you’ve never even met her.”

“No… but Varric told me about her. About the real her. Things that weren’t in his book, things even  _ she _ has never told anyone else.” Cassandra was beaming as she spoke, clearly overjoyed by the intimacy she had already developed with the Champion through their mutual confidant.

Hero worship seemed too generous a diagnosis.

“Well, you’ll soon have the chance to get to know her better.”

And, maker willing, the real Belladonna Hawke would stand up to Cassandra’s expectations.


End file.
